


Afterparty

by finnglas (mjules)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, F/F, PWP, ambiguously aged character, questionable Spanish with improper punctuation, sex in a quinceanera dress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5261795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjules/pseuds/finnglas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Simza finds out the girl she's fucking is possibly younger than she thought. (But possibly not. Who knows.) Vaguely Saints Row related, as this is the universe in which my Mass Effect Shepard became my Saints Boss... but that's not really relevant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterparty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greytaliesin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greytaliesin/gifts).



“I’m surprised you’re still here,” Anja says, grinning at Simza where she’s leaning against the wall, fiddling with an unlit cigarette.

“Me too,” Simza says flatly, but her focus is across the room where Angela is giggling, her skirt flouncing with her movements. “That dress has so many ruffles on it I’m scared to walk past it. Might eat me.”

Anja snorts. “Afraid you might get lost under it?” she teases. “Not like everyone here don’t know you been fuckin’ her all this time.”

“Not like I asked her how old she was,” Simza tosses back.

“Not like it woulda stopped you if you’d known,” Anja grins.

“Nah, probably not,” she admits, and taps the cigarette against her thigh, still thinking about lighting it, the same way she’s thinking about going over to Angela and wishing her a happy birthday. It feels weird, though, to approach her, so she stays where she is, cigarette unlit.

She probably would’ve ended up staying there for the rest of the party except that’s when Pablo decided to show up. Simza straightens up, alert, but Angela beats her to it, stalking across the room, ruffles flouncing.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Angela demands, and Pablo grins, shrugging.

“What, just because you’re fuckin’ someone else now, I can’t tell you feliz cumpleanos, mami?”

“Who the fuck invited you?” Her fists are clenched, the satin of her opera-length gloves catching the light with the motion.

“Nobody, mami.” Pablo reaches for her waist, and before Simza can protest, Angela’s swinging, her fist connecting solidly with his nose. “Puta!” he yelps, and Angela hits him again for it, but Simza whistles to two of the Saints, invited to Angela’s party but still working for her.

They pick him up under his arms, unperturbed by his struggle, and drag him out of the room, blood pouring down his face. Simza looks for Angela, but she’s already storming out of the room, fists clenched by her side, tiara slightly askew.

She sighs, tosses the cigarette, and follows her out.

“Mami,” she calls when she’s in the hallway, instead of running to catch up with her. “Ey, ‘quita, ven aqui.”

Angela stops with a loud sigh, but she doesn’t turn around and she doesn’t come back toward Simza. It’s enough, and Simza catches up with her eventually, catching Angela’s fist in one hand, thumb skimming her knuckles. “You all right, mamita?” she asks softly, and Angela nods, though she’s frowning hard enough that Simza catches her under the chin and tilts her face up. “You don’t look all right.”

“I’m fine,” she protests, and there’s something about the shape of her pout in that bright red lipstick that distracts Simza thoroughly. “Just pissed he showed up and ruined my quinceanera.”

“They’re still partyin’ back in there,” Simza says. “It’s not ruined. We can still go back.”

"You gonna do somethin’ besides hold up the wall if we do?” Angela snaps, glaring up at her, and Simza raises an eyebrow.

“Didn’t realize that was pissin’ you off too.”

Angela scowls and looks away, jerking her chin out of Simza’s hand. “You been weird ever since you found out I asked for a quinceanera,” she mutters. “Like it changed somethin’.”

“Well, technically,” Simza says, “it does mean I was doin’ somethin’ illegal. Not that it’s ever stopped me before, but usually I go into somethin’ knowing I’m breakin’ the law.”

“I don’t fucking care if it’s illegal,” Angela huffs. “You weren’t the first one to fuck me, and I wanted it to happen.”

“Yeah, I know you did,” Simza sighs, shifting her weight. “So did I, so it’s not like I’m gonna say we shouldn’t have done it.”

Angela looks up at her through her eyelashes. “You still gonna fuck me, then? Still gonna let me be your girl?”

Simza scowls. “Yeah. It’s fuckin’ weird, but yeah. Not like I could tell you no, even in that fuckin’ dress.”

“I love this dress!”

And Simza’s not really going to argue. The skirt is fucking ridiculous, but that doesn’t start until halfway down her hips, and the rest of it’s so tight Simza can see every goddamn curve that no fifteen-year-old could possibly have.

“I’d love it more if that skirt was up around your waist,” Simza leers, getting away from the awkward topic of her age.

“Pig,” Angela scoffs, but she’s pleased, a pink flush across her nose.

“You knew what you were getting into,” Simza says, dismissive. “Question is if you wanna go back to your party, or if you wanna let me fuck that tiara right out of your hair.”

Angela bites her lip around a grin. “What if you fuck me first and then we go back into the party?” she says. “And everybody’ll know where I’ve been and who I’ve been doing.”

Simza snorts, but she reaches up to palm one of Angela’s breasts through the tight satin of her bodice, squeezing hard. “Been wantin’ to suck on these goddamn tits all night,” she mutters. “Walkin’ around with them almost fallin’ out…”

Angela groans, pushing her chest into Simza’s hand for a second before she grabs her wrist and pulls her.

“We’re not doin’ it in the hall,” she snaps as she flounces through the nearest door, her skirt so wide it catches on the doorframe. Simza grins, following obediently as Angela yanks her into the room and shuts the door.

It’s one of the rec rooms, miraculously empty of any other couples seeking solitude, with a couch and a pool table.

“Well, you got your pick,” Simza drawls. “Wall, table, couch, floor…”

Angela doesn’t respond, just reaches out and hauls Simza in by the back of her neck, kissing her hard. Simza’s surprised, but she backs Angela up against the pool table and helps hoist her up onto the edge, not letting up on their kisses.

“You sure you’re actually fifteen?” Simza mutters between kisses, pushing the frothy skirt up her thighs. “And not just lying to get a party?”

“Do you fuckin’ care?” Angela bounces back, biting her lip, spreading her legs and hooking one foot behind Simza’s thigh to pull her in.

Simza doesn’t answer that, just works her fingers into Angela’s panties and in between her lips, curling so the tips push into her. She groans, and Simza rubs her, opening her mouth with a deep kiss. The skirt makes a loud rustling sound between them, and the heel of Angela’s stiletto scrapes against the felt of the table as she pushes herself farther back, trying to pull Simza with her.

Simza resists her, works her panties down her legs instead, carelessly leaves them when they catch on the stiletto heel, dangling over the edge of the table.

“I don’t, actually,” Simza says right before she pushes Angela’s thighs apart and licks into her pussy. It takes Angela a minute to realize she’s finally answering her last question, but by that point, Angela doesn’t really care either.

“Fuck, mami, I love how you eat me,” she gasps, hand tightening in Simza’s hair. Simza opens her mouth wide, sucking on her labia, licking inside her before she moves up to press the flat of her tongue roughly against Angela’s clit, two of her fingers pushing into her instead. “Oh -- oh fuck, mierda --” Angela swears, her voice going high and squeaky.

The stiletto heel scrapes over the felt and Simza grabs her ankle, slings her leg over Simza’s shoulder instead. She doesn’t pause her licking at all, but Angela can almost hear her telling her to lay off the pool table before she has to replace it. Angela doesn’t mind, tightening her leg over Simza’s back, hand clenching in her hair, grinding her pussy down against Simza’s face desperately as she comes to the edge of orgasm sharply and suddenly.

Simza looks up at her through her eyelashes and pushes a third finger into her, teeth scraping her sensitive clit, and Angela screams, breathless and shrill, as her back arches off the table and she cums hard on Simza’s hand. Simza fucks her through it, and when she’s done, sucks one last kiss against her clit.

“Goddamn I wish you had your fake dick with you,” Angela pants, her breasts heaving where they have finally fallen out of her dress. “So you could fuck me right through this table.”

Simza grins, licking her lips, and smacks her thigh.

“We’ll do that after your party,” she promises, and in a surprising show of affection, leans over and kisses her gently on the lips. “Happy birthday, mamita.”

Angela laughs, panting, her legs hanging limply over the side of the table, her dress a formless pile of ruffles and wrinkled satin, her tiara dangling from the tangled mess of her carefully curled hair.

“Happy fuckin’ birthday to me,” she agrees.


End file.
